


Weight

by spirkybubbles



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Character Study, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 23:19:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15650994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirkybubbles/pseuds/spirkybubbles
Summary: More character study on Lanreth and his past before joining up with the current party in-campaign.(Lanreth is my dnd elven bard.)





	Weight

**Author's Note:**

> There is some discussion here of Lan formerly being enslaved and used for killing and assassination, and some trauma from that.  
> If that's not something you want to read or that would upset you, I suggest not reading it.
> 
> (Red Seabury is not my character and belongs to a close friend.)

The ghostly weight of rusted shackles seems to linger no matter how long they've been off, and the scars are still there, refusing to fade. He covers them.  
Beneath thick layers of clothing, as red as the blood that once stained his hands, so none can see the thick lines of scar tissue wrapped around his neck like a noose, or the signs of imprisonment burnt into his ankles, or the cruel kisses of a whip carved into his back. He hides them beneath the burning crimson symbolism heavy laden with his shame, so none can see that he's no better than a discarded toy or a misplaced belonging that his dead master will never come to retrieve and put to use once more. A broken tool without someone to use it, pointless in existing. 

He mourns, not for the man who once held his chains, but for how he could have lived, the life that could have been. He mourns for his lost humanity, for the blind obedience and loyalty still clinging to some of his mannerisms. He mourns, at the phantom feeling of blood dripping down his fingers and coating his palms that never seems to leave him, having stained his soul as well as his flesh. He mourns, and he hides it. 

He hides it, beneath a quick tongue with the sting of a whip and the fiery blaze of wrath permanently settled into his tense body and dark, nearly lifeless eyes. 

It's not until the calloused hands of a sailor massage at his scars with pure acceptance, with devotion and understanding, lacking revulsion or malice, that his anger slips away and he feels his cheeks begin to wet with tears. It's not until his palms are kissed and his tears are dried that he begins to associate the color red with something other than blood and pain.


End file.
